Mr Honk suddenly felt the urge to write a letter,
only to end up writing a whole four and freezing
after that affectionate salutation when he realised
he had no addressee.
In his juvenile days he’d most likely write to Santa,
but now a bottle message seemed the only option,
though he was out of Diamant Bleu, and there was
the matter of pollution.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
hidden pilcrow 